


Mein Opal

by Jennifandom13



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Art, Murder, Serial Killers, career birth, criminal debut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-15
Updated: 2013-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-20 07:41:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/884723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jennifandom13/pseuds/Jennifandom13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Rich Brook became Jim Moriarty through his fascination for art.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mein Opal

**Author's Note:**

> I have never written any fanfic before and I wanted to see if the way I write will be well-received. This is a one-shot of Moriarty. Let me know what you think. If you like it, I'll write out my actual fanfic idea.

“Richard! It's time for supper.”  
“I'll be down soon mum!” Richard turned to the next page in the book he was reading, A Study of Serial Murders. The particular man he was reading about always left clues for his pursuers and the idea of being caught fascinated him. As Rich read more, he filled with anticipation because he knew the police were going to catch him soon. Then he saw the last note the killer left. It was moriarty written in blood across a cross. In the next room the police found him, dead. The book went on to say that the note was written in the killer's own blood. In French, the word means “to die was an art” and the very idea that dying and killing were the yin and yang of the same art thrilled Rich. He bookmarked the page and hurried down to the dining room to eat with his mum, but the whole time he was thinking about his book and how artful the man's life really had been.   
~*~  
Jim answered his phone with an impatient grunt, “Yes, yes what do you want?” A mumbled answer came over the receiver. “No. Follow the plan, or stop wasting my time.” With that, he hung up. Turning to face the room behind him, he mused “Isn't it odd how people come desperate for help, and then try so hard to fight the hand that saves them. They have no concept of elegance, only rebellion.” In the room with him was a woman draped across a settee, but upon closer inspection, she wasn't draped at all: she was mewed up. Her body painfully arched over the one arm of the cushioned furniture and her bare body rose and fell in labored breaths. Her legs were shackled together around the leg opposite her head. Her hair draped gracefully towards the ground, with the tips dragging along it in the dust. A rich, thick liquid coated her body. Jim had painted her in blood from a gash on her front-facing leg. As she continued to breathe, the blood continued to gush. Jim watched in fascination as the very thing that kept her alive killed her. The stain of the blood on the settee painted a red picture across the white fabric. Mountains took shape in the streaks of her blood. Jim watched in ecstasy as she breathed her last and her head slumped back across the arm. “Of all those I've drawn out, you have been a masterpiece. I do hope your family appreciates the beauty of your death like they did your life, but then again, they may never know.” With a gleeful chuckle, Jim stalked out of the building to take on his next project. When the police found the woman hours later, the dried blood Jim had left on her stomach spelled out “Mein Opal <3 JM.” My opus. My masterpiece. And just like that, a new kill was added to the ever-growing list of JM's accomplishments. His portfolio was painted with blood and filled with collages of grief and murals of pain. Jim Moriarty had truly become an artist of death.


End file.
